


Keep Reading Me (Until We Are On The Same Page)

by MarInk



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Short One Shot, a shameless PWP, and they like to indulge in them, just like clever and powerful CEOs of huge companies, spy assassins also have their weak spots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:57:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarInk/pseuds/MarInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha is plagued by nightmares and unresolved sexual tension; Pepper is plagued by Tony's irresponsibility and staggering piles of things to do. It's a match made in the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Reading Me (Until We Are On The Same Page)

It's these moments in the kitchen at the pre-dawn hours that Natasha reserves for letting her defenses down. Not much, of course, but enough to feel the ever-present tension drain from her shoulders.

At this time she knows well where all her teammates are. Captain Rogers is asleep, Clint is wallowing in self-pity and brooding on the roof, Stark and Banner are working in their respective labs, and Thor is away doing some sort of godly stuff.

Natasha does not expect tired-sounding Pepper Potts to sneak into the kitchen behind Natasha's back and head straight to the half-empty coffee pot. It's nice to know that life can still bring her surprises.

"Back with Stark, are you?" Natasha inquires without turning. She may not be a super-human but no one can say that the Federal Security Service - that is the heir of KGB, there's actually no such organization as KGB in this century, for god's sake - didn't try their hardest to turn her into one.

She registers the change in Potts's breathing pattern and the unnesessarily sharp sound with which a mug connects with the working surface.

"You looked spaced out there," Potts says in an apologetic tone. "And no, I'm not back with Tony." The implied 'not that it's any of your business' is loud and clear and Natasha wonders why Potts didn't say so in the first place.

Women are complicated, Natasha knows it first-hand. That is why she has always preferred to play with boys who are transparent and simple to her. Although it can’t be said that she doesn't like to engage in a game or two with a charming woman from time to time.

"Then why are you here?" Natasha asks. She is blunt when she is sleep-deprived; also, Pepper Potts is not (at present) an enemy, so there's no harm in showing some straightforward curiosity. 

Potts sits down at the table by Natasha, the coffee cradled in her hands just like Tony in the morning; she is probably not aware how alike she and her former boss are, for all their obvious differences. Her hair is tied into a haphazard ponytail, and at some point before coming to the kitchen she has lost her shoes so her small stockinged feet slide a bit on the smooth floor. 

“I’ve got a flight in two hours, and I needed Tony to sign some papers,” Potts says. “The best way to make him do it is to corner him in his workshop and get Jarvis to shut down whatever he’s working on until the papers are done.” Her voice is full of tired amusement and Natasha can’t help but smile imagining the bristling Tony dragged forcefully out of one of his engineering binges for the sake of paperwork.

They take sips of their respective drinks in silence. Natasha studies Potts without hiding her gaze. The strawberry blond hair, the tight line of her lips, the stiff slim shoulders; Potts’s lips are bright from the hot, viscous coffee kissing them lightly every so often.

“Want a neck massage?” Natasha asks. Her hands itch to touch the frail, agile, fierce beauty that is Pepper Potts. It is nice to touch someone at four in the morning with nightmares lurking just behind your heavy eyelids.

Potts looks at Natasha in surprise; her eyes are sharp as she tries to read Natasha’s face for her motives in offering this and Natasha lets her because it’s not a mission and she doesn’t have to hide anything, including herself.

“If it’s okay with you…” Potts’s voice trails off expectantly, giving Natasha a chance to change her mind.

Natasha wouldn’t offer if she had doubts, though.

She gets up and slides behind Potts silently. Natasha’s hands catch the silky fabric of her jacket and tag it off, and then there are those tense shoulders under the thin seamless blouse. 

There are a lot of kinks in the muscles under Natasha’s fingers and she takes care to knead every single one of them with carefully applied strength. She could break Pepper Potts in half but she wants directly the opposite; soon enough Potts is melting against Natasha’s touch, leaning back towards her. Natasha brushes the ponytail to the front and proceeds to work her way through the tension in Potts’s neck, lavishing every vertebra with attention. 

Natasha lets herself lose the track of time, and God knows if Potts is already late for her flight by the time Natasha is done, having received almost as much comfort as she has given, and she just strokes Potts’s throat, enjoying the steady is slightly elevated beat of her heart.

“Thanks,” Potts says, and the vibrations of her speech go right to Natasha’s fingertips and through her whole body. “You didn’t have to do this.”

It could be a sign of dismissal – it almost certainly is – but Potts’s body language screams otherwise and Natasha doesn’t stop.

“You know,” Potts says, attempting for a light, joking tone, “one could think you simply want to have your hands all over me.”

“One could think you want me to,” Natasha purrs.

Potts laughs quietly and looks up at Natasha, leaving her throat stretched and bare for caressing – and Natasha is sure it has been done on purpose. What Potts lacks in physical strength, she more than makes up in vicious intelligence. Natasha bends down and their lips meet in a sort of upside-down kiss, messy and lazy but promising more.

When the kiss is broken, Natasha moves to stand on one knee, still behind; one of her hands doesn’t leave Potts’s neck, stroking and slightly pinching the earlobe which is already hot to touch from – Natasha doesn’t need to see Potts’s face to know she’s flushed with desire. The other hand slides down Potts’s body, brushing the hardened nipples through the layers of clothing and then snakes under the skirt. 

Ah, what a blessed inventions of human genius the stockings are. Natasha teases Potts with light touches over the smooth, warm skin of the thighs, flicks her palm a few times over the panties, damp with the natural lube already. Potts breathes fast and sharp, her body taut; she spreads her legs wider in a silent plea and Natasha slides her fingers under the panties. 

She closes her eyes, fully concentrating on the sensation of the pulsing desire waiting to be sated; Potts is hard, the blood filling her clitoris, the bridge connecting the clitoris itself and the top of her pussy. It’s not as noticeable as in men, it never is, but it is equally unmistakable if one knows where to look for it, and oh boy, does Natasha know. 

She crooks her index finger in the dimple just under the clitoris and shifts it rhythmically, minutely, pressing into the base of the clitoris with the pad of her finger with each movement. Now is not the time for needy urgency; the stimulation is enough to build up the want, to make Potts anticipate but certainly not enough to make her come. Potts has been silent so far, and Natasha wants to make her moan, reduce her to an incoherent puddle before she lets her come. A girl is entitled to a whim or two, after all.

Potts still doesn’t make a sound but her breathing is ragged and raspy, and after a few minutes of sweet torture she can’t help but thrust her hips into the touch. Natasha herself is throbbing wildly, wishing for a hand or a mouth so much, and she squeezes her own muscles in sync with the movement of her finger to take the edge off. Finally, there’s a quiet whimper escaping Potts’s throat, and Natasha takes it as a sign that it’s time to be more forward. 

She moves her finger up and circles the clit, applying just a little bit of pressure every time; once she finds the spot which tears the loudest breathy ‘aah!’ out of Potts, she concentrates on it. She is still slow, and Potts arcs her back and meets Natasha’s touches with abandon. It is beautiful; it is the most exhilarating thing in Natasha’s life to hold another person, usually so efficient and collected, literally in her hands, desperate and mad with lust. She kisses Potts’s throat where there’s a quick vein; bites a bit, eliciting a groan, and then licks the abused delicate skin, feeling the blood running fast and hot under the few millimeters of flesh.

As she quickens the pace, Potts moans unabashedly, thrusting forward again and again; Natasha slips her middle finger inside Potts and is immediately awarded by tight wet heat closing spastically around her. She goes faster and faster, never stopping to tease even though she sort of wants to do it, even if just to hear Potts beg for release; but in the end she doesn’t do it, and Potts comes with a choked moan, squeezing her thighs over Natasha’s hand, shaking uncontrollably as the climax shoots through her whole body. 

Natasha kisses her neck and continues to stroke her inside through the aftershocks. She bends both her index and middle fingers to the first knuckle, letting them lay one on each side of the clitoris, and slowly strokes, pressing hard. Potts whimpers while the last bits of orgasm are milked from her. Natasha doesn’t stop even when Potts is done, slack against the back of the chair. The thing about women is that it takes a while to exhaust them; right now, just after Potts came, Natasha can start going faster again and Potts will be teetering on the edge of another climax in no time; she knows it and Potts must know it too but there’s nothing in Potts’s posture that would indicate that she doesn’t want anything else, doesn’t want more. The thought alone makes a spike of pleasure flare up in Natasha; she works her muscles again and again, fast and unforgiving, and her body is needy enough to take it and go with it, and she comes as well, the fingers of her free hand digging into Potts’s shoulder.

“That wasn’t what I expected to get when I came in,” Potts says; her voice is low, husky. “But it certainly beats simply having the umpteenth cup of coffee before I go to the airport.”

“You might be late to your flight already,” Natasha chuckles.

“It’s StarkIndustries private jet; it’ll wait for me as long as necessary.”

“But you do need to be wherever it is that you need to be in the morning, don’t you?”

“Will you be here when I’m back?” Potts asks. The playfulness of her voice doesn’t quite cover the underlying vulnerability as if she expects Natasha to tell her ‘no’.

“I might,” Natasha says mildly. “My line of work is unpredictable.”

“Superheroing is like that,” Potts agrees with laughter that bears no cheer but a lot of bitterness in it. 

Natasha takes her hands out of Potts’s panties and wipes the come off with a napkin; gets up on her feet. Potts tidies herself up – shrugs on the jacket, reties the ponytail, smoothes the skirt. The changes are all small but together they make for a breathtaking transformation from a vulnerable young woman into a powerful CEO. Natasha appreciates both the change itself and Potts’s ability to do it.

It is hot. Very, very hot. It’s easy to be breathtaking when you have talents and capabilities beyond and above an average human, and while Natasha admires each and every one of her teammates (God forbid, though, if Clint or Stark ever find out about it), there’s nothing quite like somebody who is breathtaking purely on their own, no serum, suit of armor, or gamma-radiation involved.

“Call me if the guys with whom you’ll be negotiating become too obnoxious,” she offers. “I could come and kill them all.”

It startles a laugh out of Potts, and just like that her eyes are sparkling with mirth, not shadowed with, no doubt, unpleasant memories of her break-up with Stark for exactly these reasons: the unpredictability of ‘superheroing’.

“I might just take you up on your offer,” she says, still smiling. “Or, at the very least, tell them that the Black Widow wants me back in New-York soon and in a good mood, so…”

“Why not?” Natasha says. “To speak the truth is easy and pleasant.”

She doesn’t expect Potts to recognize the quote. 

It is rare that Agent Romanov is proved wrong about someone; now is, apparently, one of those times.

“Understand,” says Potts, “that the tongue can conceal the truth, but the eyes – never!”

Natasha smiles, feeling suddenly warm inside. 

“Go to the airport,” she says. “I’ll be here.”

“Alright,” Potts agrees.

It’s easy to watch her go, even if Natasha doesn’t know for sure whether Potts will be back with her mind still unchanged about this. 

For once in her life, though, Natasha is unconcerned about the uncertainty of the outcome. It’s a refreshing feeling. Maybe now she can go and finally get some sleep where nightmares will be replaced by nicer things. 

Maybe. She won’t know until she tries.

**Author's Note:**

> The quotes are from 'The Master and Margarita' by Mikhail Bulgakov; it's a Russian classic that is studied at schools.


End file.
